


Clean Up on Aisle 13

by FrenchTwistResistance, UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Together-as-sisters Group Chat Round RobinSwingin’ Sisters grocery shop through the ages!Watch this space!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: April, 1986  
> By frenchtwistresistance  
> Summary: Zelda used to do most of the grocery shopping until she ran into a very large snag. Good thing she knows exactly how to bribe Hilda into taking over the duty.

Zelda used to do the majority of the grocery shopping for the Spellman family. She liked having a little time to herself to wander around and look at things, compare prices, indulge in a tabloid magazine instead of a serious newspaper. She liked to be seen in public and ogled. She even occasionally liked to chit chat with people she recognized from the business or Hilda’s short-lived bookclub she’d hosted a few years back. Turns out, mortals didn’t particularly like meeting at a mortuary for that sort of thing. They were pleasant enough women, though. And Zelda liked them well enough to speak to them in the snack aisle. Zelda sometimes made a list or had Hilda or Edward or even Ambrose make her a list. But sometimes she liked conveniently forgetting some items so she’d have another excuse to get out of the house if she was in a mood.

Zelda did the majority of the grocery shopping until April, 1986.

It was an unseasonably warm day, and Hilda had begged her to take her out in the convertible for a picnic. But Zelda had been in a mood and had taken the convertible herself to go grocery shopping alone instead. In retrospect, she should’ve taken Hilda along.

It was a regular jaunt. A regular day. But she was already in a mood. And now she was in the recently waxed housewares aisle, looking for the specific little stupid lightbulbs that went in the chandelier in the foyer. Sometimes the grocery store carried them, sometimes they didn’t. The lightbulbs themselves were annoying enough. One had to take off so many accoutrements to get to them and they were so small and so finicky, and apparently some luxury product instead of a regular lightbulb. The fancier the lightbulb, the quicker it was to burn out, the harder it was to find in a small town. Unfortunately, she loathed the hardware store and wouldn’t set foot in there. Disorganized and unfriendly and misogynistic. So sometimes it came down to the chandelier having all twenty of its moronic little lightbulbs burnt out before she would unbutton her blouse a few buttons as she cajoled the manager at the grocery store to special order them.

She was rummaging through her purse for one of the burnt out little dickwads so she could compare it to the vague, incomprehensible packaging, when some teenager she half-recognized in a blue uniform smock was saying to her,

“Ma’am?” She looked up from rummaging and ashed her cigarette right onto his ugly neon sneaker.

“Hmm?” She said.

“Uh. Ma’am. You can’t smoke in here,” he said.

“Since when?”

“Since Monday. Policy change.” She put one hand on a hip and continued smoking with the other.

“I was not informed.”

“You’re being informed now.”

“No, I’m not. In what official capacity are you speaking to me—” she looked at his name tag to make sure she had remembered correctly. “—Jason? What official role do you have here, Jason?” She finished icily.

“Uh. I work in the deli.”

“Exactly. You work in the deli. And it is not posted anywhere, and I did not receive anything about this in the mail although I am a proud and loyal member of the buyers club.”

“Well it’s uh. I think it’s like a state thing now?”

“But you don’t know know, now do you? Move along. I’m trying to buy fucking lightbulbs, here.”

He disappeared around the corner, and she continued rummaging through her purse. She finally found the little bastard. And started looking in earnest at the packages. She wasn’t stupid. She’d written down the kind she’d bought last time. But now it was all different brands, or the same brand in new packaging, or either different or same brands with slightly different wattages. It was an aggravating mess is what it was. She cursed and stubbed out her cigarette in the standing ashtray at the end of the aisle. Ha! There! The little jerk had been lying! Or misinformed! Or an idiot! Or all of the above! She lit another cigarette in vindication, and returned to the lightbulbs.

A middle-aged woman in a blue uniform smock appeared in her periphery.

“Ma’am?” Zelda rolled her eyes and turned to her with a very fake smile. She was about to accidentally crush the lightbulb in her hand, so she tossed it into her bag in case she had to clench her fist any further.

“Yes?” Zelda said, sickly sweet.

“You can’t smoke in here,” the woman—Zelda looked at her name tag: Sharon, Manager—said, just this side of friendly.

“Oh, so that’s why you have ashtrays at the end of every aisle. So that people can make tiny sandcastles in them if they get bored with shopping.”

“We haven’t removed them yet.”

“You also have not posted any signage,” Zelda said, blowing a smoke ring pointedly into Sharon’s face.

“It doesn’t matter whether we’ve posted it. It’s our policy now, and I’m asking you politely to please extinguish your cigarette.”

“Or what? You’ll have me arrested for doing something everyone has always done in this backwater shit hole?”

“Ma’am—”

“Where’s Jerry? Real manager Jerry?” Sharon sucked her teeth, shifted her weight.

“I’m his temporary replacement from corporate. He was fired for groping a customer.”

“Hmm. That tracks. Anyway, I will continue smoking until I have a formal announcement. So if you’ll let me just slide past you to look at these god-damn lightbulbs—” Sharon did not allow her to just slide past her. She said,

“This is your formal announcement.”

“Oh you could be anyone. Stole that smock right off poor Sharon’s fresh corpse!” 

Zelda snaked her arm between Sharon and the shelf, grabbing for very obviously wrong lightbulbs. Sharon, startled by the sudden movement, lurched away and tripped. Zelda, startled by that, reached for Sharon to steady her, but Sharon jerked away, not trusting Zelda’s altruism. And then they both crashed inelegantly into the shelf, sending at least two dozen delicately packaged lightbulbs careening to the floor. Between the two of them, Zelda, scrambling in her pumps to gain her footing on the slick linoleum, and Sharon, also scrambling to keep her footing, crushed every single package, and now Sharon, slipping on glass and metal and thin cardboard and waxed floor, was definitely going to fall, and she was headed in a dangerous trajectory. So Zelda did the only reasonable thing: she deliberately tackled her to the ground into an area free of broken glass.

Sharon was an attractive woman. In another context, Zelda might have enjoyed being on top of her while she screamed, but this was not that context.

She was unable to peel herself off in a way that wouldn’t result in glass shards in her kneecaps before Jason and several other employees had run to them and seen something that looked just very incriminating.

“Jason. I can explain,” Zelda said, still half on top of Sharon and gingerly piecing her way to a place she could stand up safely.

“Get off me!” Sharon was still screaming. Someone else ran off toward the front of the store, probably to call the cops. “How dare you! What exactly were you doing? Trying to murder me?!” Sharon was now having the same problem of standing without impaling herself. Visibly realizing just how much broken glass was around and where she would’ve landed naturally, she said, “Oh.” Zelda had made it up by then and was extending a hand to help Sharon.

“See? Should’ve just let me smoke.” In fact, the cigarette was miraculously still in her hand and lit, and she took a triumphant drag.

Even through her bravado, Zelda knew she would never be able to show her face in the place again. She had to get in front of the situation—rumor, hearsay, and family-teasing-wise alike. She chain-smoked and drove around in the convertible for a while brainstorming.

Ideally, Ambrose would be the best suited to take over the shopping. He could hear whatever grocery-store gossip and keep it under his proverbial hat, gently rib her about it privately. But that was, alas, not an option. Edward: absolutely not. She’d never hear the end of it—how she was disgraceful and rude and sullying their good, hard-won family name. If Hilda started doing the shopping, everyone—absolutely everyone, probably even Sharon from corporate—knew and loved her and would have loads of fun telling her all the gory, embellished, half-true details. Hilda would very probably protect her honor publicly, but she’d also have to be bribed to not mention it to anyone inside the family. She could do bribes, especially Hilda bribes. A plan had fortuitously come to her.

Zelda honked the tinny little horn of the convertible at Hilda, who was taking linens off the clothes line.

“Hop in,” Zelda said.

Hilda narrowed her eyes, said,

“Thought you needed some ‘me time.’” Zelda rolled her eyes at the phrase she would never use.

“And I’ve had it. Now I want some ‘you time.’”

“And if I’m not in the mood?” Hilda said, suspicious.

“Look in the back seat before you make your decision.” Hilda threw the pillow case she’d just unpinned into her laundry cart and stepped closer, pressed up on her tiptoes to look over into the back seat. There was a wicker picnic basket, with a gingham tablecloth covering it and everything. She put her hands on her hips.

“Now what’s all this?” Hilda said, even more suspicious.

“You wanted a picnic. I thought you might appreciate it if you didn’t have to prepare it for once.” Hilda looked back at the laundry, looked at Zelda. She tentatively opened the passenger door, said,

“I don’t exactly trust you, but I know you absolutely hate poisoning me, so…” But then the thought occurred to her and she lunged over the bench seat and ripped off the gingham. Satisfied there were no weapons, only food and ice and beer, she replaced the gingham and sat in the passenger seat, shut the door.

“Would you like to do a full cavity search, officer?” Zelda said suggestively. Hilda slid closer to her on the seat, put her head on her shoulder.

“Yes. Later, though.” Zelda draped her arm around Hilda’s shoulders.

“After I ply you with booze?”

“If I’m going to be a corrupt official, I might as well go all the way.” Zelda smirked. This plan was already going so well.

“Exactly what I expected from a woman on the take.” Hilda looked up at that inquisitively, but Zelda kissed her on the nose and then squealed the tires as she pulled out of the drive.

Zelda let Hilda pick the radio station. The ancient convertible only had am, but in the ‘80s that was still a viable source of different types of music, and yet Hilda settled on easy listening anyway. They drove around for a while, Hilda snuggled into Zelda’s side—it was very warm for Massachusetts April but still a little convertible chilly. They wound lazily through the woods and then around some old mines and then finally stopped at a community botanical garden that Hilda sometimes volunteered at. Not a lot was blooming yet, but the magnolia tree was making a valiant effort of it, so they spread their blanket beneath it.

Zelda constructed a perfect cucumber sandwich for Hilda, used the car’s door key as a bottle opener to pop the top on a bottle of the beer that Hilda preferred, fussed over whether Hilda was comfortable on the blanket. Hilda watched all this very carefully, took it all in. She watched Zelda eat whatever was closest and drink the beer with a little expression of disgust and fidget on the blanket. Hilda leaned against the trunk of the tree, took a swig, said,

“What are we bartering for this time?”

Zelda fluttered her eyelashes unconvincingly, said,

“I just thought you deserved a little pampering. I was so brusque and dismissive this morning. I should’ve considered your f—”

“Bollocks. What do you want from me?”

Zelda saw that she was being seen through, changed tactics. She stalked toward Hilda and nuzzled her neck, said,

“I haven’t tasted you in weeks.” Hilda swallowed thickly against Zelda’s tongue at her throat but ultimately willed herself to roll her eyes and say,

“I never need this much convincing for that.” Hilda cupped Zelda’s face, peered into her eyes. “What do you want from me?” Zelda felt tendrils of Hilda’s magic lapping at her brain. She didn’t let them penetrate. That would’ve been too embarrassing, so she shut her eyes to put up a barrier and confess in her own chosen words instead of whatever malformed emotions Hilda would’ve extracted with her telepathy.

“There was an incident. At the grocery store.” Hilda kissed her lightly on the mouth and then laughed:

“Did you finally get yourself so worked up about those stupid lightbulbs that you accidentally burned the place down?”

By the time Zelda had finished the entire story and the plea for Hilda to take over this chore discreetly, Hilda had finished her second beer and was trying not to giggle too much to be murdered for it.

They were lying on their sides on the blanket, and Zelda was finally laughing, too. And Hilda said,

“So here comes the part where I’m a corrupt official and negotiate the terms of my bribe.”

“Mmhmm,” Zelda said, running a hand over Hilda’s side and landing on her hip, squeezing there. Hilda scooted closer on the blanket, and Zelda slid her leg between Hilda’s. Hilda gasped and said,

“There is that part of it. But I think with something of this magnitude, I’m going to need a little more than just a mutual cavity search.” Zelda scooted closer this time and pressed her thigh to Hilda’s center. Hilda moaned.

“Mmhmm?” Zelda said, thrusting once.

“If I’m now doing the shopping, you’re now doing the laundry,” Hilda said a little raggedly. Zelda’s hand on Hilda’s hip traveled down to the hem of Hilda’s skirt and began inching it up farther than it had bunched when Zelda had positioned her leg.

“Mmhmm?” Zelda said, and she thrust again, scraping her fingernails against Hilda’s hip. Hilda moaned again and then choked out,

“And I’ll be subject to a lot more social interaction in which I’ll have to deflect attention from your misdeeds.” Zelda’s fingers were dancing against Hilda’s naked thigh, skimming from knee to panty line.

“Mmhmm?” Zelda said, tracing patterns on Hilda’s inner thigh. Hilda was panting now and trying very hard not to buck her hips and said,

“So I think you ought to come to book club with me.” Zelda’s fingers caressed Hilda’s vulva over her panties.

“As long as Sharon’s not invited.” Zelda's fingers continued stroking, and Hilda finally allowed herself to roll her hips.

“I don’t know, Zelds. It might be a love connection,” Hilda said. Zelda pounced then, rolling Hilda to her back and climbing atop her.

“No. I’d rather you be beneath me screaming.” And with than she shoved the panties aside and penetrated her. Hilda yelped and then bucked forcefully, grabbed Zelda by the shoulders.

“Mmhmm,” Hilda groaned. Zelda thrust harder, husked into Hilda’s ear,

“Are you thoroughly bribed, then?”

Hilda was unable to respond for a few seconds, relishing Zelda’s fingers inside her and body on top of her and hot breath on her neck. After a moment, she said,

“I haven’t come yet, and you haven’t done any laundry yet. So time will tell.”

And time did tell.

Zelda can often be found folding fitted sheets or at the fellowship hall of the Methodist church with a notebook full of observations about some southern gothic novel or another. And Hilda can often be found at the grocery store for necessities she’s unable to grow herself or at the hardware store for those stupid lightbulbs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: August, 1971  
> by ubiquitousmixie  
> OML when I begged to go next, I did NOT think it would take me so damn long to finish it. Sorry for the delay, sister wives. Hope you enjoy!

August, 1971

When Zelda stalks sleepily -- and only the slightest bit hungover -- into the kitchen, her fears have been confirmed. 

She’s been caught. 

Zelda hadn’t given much thought to how or when she would clean up her mess without Hilda finding out, had only stumbled to bed foggy with weed and whiskey and a half-hearted promise mumbled to a slumbering sister that she would tidy up in the morning. 

Zelda had failed to remember in her inebriated state that Hilda would certainly wake before her, would no doubt find the carnage left behind by a high, drunk, and hungry redhead after she’d returned from a dull party with the coven. 

Hilda has, of course, left Zelda’s mess for her to clean up, has gone so far as to tidy around said mess without touching any of what her older sister had left behind. She surveys the table, littered with great globs of honey and a half-eaten cranberry scone Hilda had made the morning before. The honey jar is open, tipped to the side, pooling along the tabletop. 

There is a fly trapped in the sticky amber sweetness. 

Zelda’s mouth waters when she remembers the real prize: the bowl of succulent, plump peaches at the center of the breakfast table. She’d been unable to resist the temptation when she had stumbled home. The first peach she had eaten without preamble, sinking her teeth into ripe flesh and moaning as her mouth flooded with tart juice. It had dripped down her chin and had fallen into her cleavage, but Zelda had only been able to think about how much it reminded her of the delicious treat between her sister’s legs.

The second peach she had drizzled with honey. 

She’s sure the marijuana is entirely to blame for the fact that she’d taken bites out of every single remaining peach in the bowl. 

Zelda finds the shopping list by the French press. 

Peaches and honey are underlined thrice. 

Zelda rolls her eyes. 

-

Zelda lowers her sunglasses to survey the scene before her, bracing herself for the horrors within. 

She would, under normal circumstances, avoid the Greendale Farmers' Market at all cost, but Zelda has already admitted defeat about the likelihood of finding a decent selection of peaches at the grocery store. As the designated Spellman family shopper, she knows the lackluster selection available to her and also knows that honey in a bear-shaped container and subpar fruit won’t cut it. 

(Zelda will also admit that the market is the only place where she can find the organic hemp rolling papers that she and Ambrose prefer for their cigarettes and joints.)

Not for the first time, Zelda wonders where her sister has disappeared to. Hilda is often out on some errand or another on Saturday mornings, whisking herself away to Satan knows where, and will usually return with her nose pink from too much time spent in the sun and a few new pale blonde highlights amidst all of those glorious, golden curls. 

But she must not distract herself with thoughts of her younger sister’s hair (certainly not the way it looks bracketed by Zelda’s milky thighs), not when there are mortals with dirt on their overalls and small talk ready on their lips. 

Zelda finds the honey easily enough, manages to exchange crisp bills without having to exchange too many pleasantries with the silver-haired man who gazes too long at the modest vee of her neckline. 

The peaches are more of a challenge. There is a small crowd around the stand, and grubby mortal hands pluck and squeeze and examine. Zelda sharply exhales her annoyance, her eye roll hidden behind tinted lenses. 

She hates the Farmers' Market. 

Hilda finds it charming. 

Zelda has expressly forbidden her sister from selling her wares here, has made her agree to never sully the Spellman name by using secret family recipes to infuse lavender soap that mortals will use to scrub their feet. 

No. Absolutely _not_. 

She finally elbows her way in, chooses and pays for her peaches, thanks the Dark Lord for making the process relatively painless. She picks up a few apples, a baguette, and a heaping bunch of raspberries that she will feed her sister in bed, preferably with some of Hilda’s fresh whipped cream.

It’s when Zelda is paying for a bunch of yellow daisies -- a peace offering for her sister, in hopes that it will mean that they’ll push the beds together tonight -- that she sees her. 

Hilda. 

-

The moment Hilda realizes she’s been caught is a delicious one. 

Zelda makes her way through the small crowd toward Hilda’s table, draped in ivory linen, displaying a variety of goods ranging from lemon curd to strawberry preserves to, of course, bars and bars of lavender soap. 

Hilda’s squeak of surprise is music to Zelda’s ears. “Sister!” 

Zelda slides her sunglasses up onto her head, pushing back rose gold curls that have begun to frizz in the morning heat. “Hildegard.” 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Hilda says, hazel eyes drooping to the bunch of daisies, wrapped in brown paper, tucked casually into Zelda’s elbow. Zelda catches the exact moment her sister’s cheeks flush with pleasure, and she can almost forgive her the transgression of breaking her promise. 

“I could say the same.” She scans the table, frowns at the bulge in Hilda’s pocket. “Business going well?” 

“Positively booming,” Hilda replies with a satisfied grin. “I’ve already sold out of my almond cookies.”

Older sister sighs. 

Of _course_ Hilda would make a significant profit at the Greendale Farmers' Market. She knows with resolute certainty that this particular battle has already been lost. Zelda would still very much like to have their twin beds pushed together and as such lets her disapproval dissolve on her tongue. “So this is where you’ve been running off to every Saturday.” 

The accusation in Zelda’s tone is met with an arch of Hilda’s eyebrow, a challenge met. “I figured you’d rather be caught dead before setting foot _here_ to replace the peaches you defiled last night.” 

Zelda grins. “Now sister, you know very well that this could have been avoided had you come to the party with me. I couldn’t have what I really wanted, as it was tucked in bed like some sort of aging spinster, so I turned to what was available.”

“Oh, it’s _my_ fault that you let loose on my kitchen like a tempted maiden in a Rossetti poem?” 

Zelda’s cheeks burn as her thoughts turn to reading that particular poem aloud dozens of times, just the two of them, locked together in one nest.

(Oh, how rosy with embarrassment Hilda’s cheeks would grow whenever she recalled how her dear friend Christina had turned her most precious secrets into poetry.)

Zelda leans in, arching an eyebrow as she lowers her voice. “You know very well, sister, that yours is the only peach that I wish to defile.” 

“Zelds!” Hilda snaps, eyes wide as she scans the passersby, including one very nosy librarian. “There are _children_.” 

“Don’t be such a prude, sister. No one’s listening.”

As if summoned, Harold Carter shuffles up to the table, hooking his calloused thumb around the strap of his overalls. He grins at Hilda, who glares at Zelda, who glares at Harold. “Morning, Miss Spellman. Fine day, isn’t it?” 

Hilda nods with an easy smile, blonde curls catching sunlight. “It sure is.” She turns to her sister, giving a saucy wink before saying, “You remember my sister, Zelda?”

Zelda’s murderous glare is hidden behind her sunglasses as he gives her a generous nod. 

“I sure do! Pleasure’s all mine!”

“It certainly is,” Zelda replies dryly.

Hilda narrows her eyes at her sister as she plasters a friendly smile on her face. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Carter?” 

“I brought those seeds for you like I promised.” He brandishes a small yellow packet, which he rattles for emphasis. “These’ll be some real beauts, I promise you that!” 

“What a thrill,” Zelda deadpans, watching as this balding mortal peers at her sister’s ample cleavage. It would be incredibly simple to kill this man and make it look like an accident for the way he leers and wonders how many Saturday mornings this portly simpleton spends creeping by her baby sister’s table. There are at least eight different discernable murder weapons within arm’s reach. She fantasizes about them all. 

Zelda particularly enjoys the mental image of his jugular becoming intimately acquainted with a shard of mason jar.

Hilda gives an exasperated sigh, no doubt flooded with flashes of Zelda’s homicidal impulses, and has tucked the envelope into her pocket. She brandishes a large bundle of herbs that she promptly thrusts toward him. “And here’s the rosemary I promised your wife.”

Harold droops a little, and Zelda doesn’t bother hiding her satisfied smirk. “Sally’ll be thrilled.”

He lingers over their goodbyes, his greedy eyes tracing curves behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses. When he has finally, mercifully departed, Zelda turns to her sister. “ _Honestly,_ Hildegard. _These_ are the people you choose to consort with?”

-

Several more customers amble by the table, pulling Hilda’s attention away. She dotes on these local townsfolk who are clearly regulars, and her whole aura radiates a warmth that not even cold, impenetrable Zelda is immune to. She is rendered momentarily speechless watching her beautiful sister sell lavender soap hand-carved into intricate shapes.

It’s enough to whittle at Zelda’s intense dislike of the market ever-so-slightly. 

Hilda has a knack for making the most vile, most ugly places beautiful. 

This is no exception.

When they are once again alone at the table, Hilda turns toward Zelda, nearly preening with smug satisfaction. “See? Not so bad, is it?” 

Zelda sniffs, turns up her nose. “Stay out of my thoughts.” 

“Didn’t have to,” Hilda admits, and her grin widens. “I can tell. You like it here. You want to come with me every weekend, don’t you?” 

“I do, in fact, want to _come_ with you every weekend, but --” 

There is no opportunity for the sisters to engage in flirtatious banter over Zelda’s terrible attempt at a dirty joke because, quite to the sisters’ surprise, a solid lump of mortal child careens into Zelda’s thigh, knocking her off-balance. 

“What in Sat --” Zelda begins, grabbing at the bundle of daisies. 

“WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE?” Hilda shouts, shooting a warning glare at her sister as she quickly rounds the table. “Is Speedy Gonzales here in Greendale?”

The little boy, about four by Zelda’s estimation, stares at the Spellman sisters through his mop of shaggy brown hair, blinking up in terror. He looks between friendly, affable Hilda and her tender smile as she crouches closer to his height and then up at Zelda, whose fist is propped on her hip and her jaw set in steely, annoyed resolve. 

His lip wobbles, and Zelda decides it would be best to refrain from offering commentary on Hilda’s racist choice of mortal popular culture reference. 

Wrong crowd. 

“What’s your name, love?” Hilda asks gently. 

“Ja-Jason,” he stammers. 

“You must be careful when you’re running, lamb, or else you might bump into mean old ladies like my sister.” 

Zelda pushes her sunglasses back into her hair so that Hilda will be able to see her glare. “You’re no spring chicken yourself, Hildegard.” 

Hilda points a thumb in her sister’s direction. “See what I mean?” 

Jason stares at Zelda. 

Zelda stares back. 

Finally, when the elder Spellman sister realizes that she has been willingly engaged in a staring contest with a child -- and a mortal child at that -- she snaps, “Boo!” with a stomp of her foot. 

Jason takes off like a shot. 

The pinch Zelda receives in her bicep is far from gentle. 

_“Zelds!”_ Hilda hisses. “What have I said about frightening the locals -- particularly the children?” 

“I suppose you’ll just have to spank me for being naughty in public again, sister,” Zelda husks into Hilda’s ear before putting on her sunglasses and readjusting the shoulder strap of her bag. 

“Well,” Hilda replies, glancing around them. When she is assured of their relative privacy, she lowers her voice and peers seductively up at her big sister through long eyelashes. “That’ll depend…” 

“On?” 

“On whether you pick up milk and toilet paper on your way home.”

\---


End file.
